~Chapter 14~
After their eventful day and evening, husband and wife lay tangled together in sleep all night so that when John attempted to rise in the predawn hours, Margaret woke. "Is it morning already?" she asked, mournfully, reaching out and lacing her short fingers through his long, lean ones to keep her husband from quitting their bed completely.
"Yes, my love," John replied, running a finger of his free hand down her cheek and leaning close to steal a kiss from her tempting lips. Pouting, Margaret tugged John back down onto the bed, which he allowed. She settled herself against him, her head resting in the crook of his neck and her arms wrapping around him.
"Margaret," John began after a moment, "I must go."
"Just a moment longer." The whisper of her soft lips against his neck, a reminder of the night before, sent a rush of heat through John's body. He moaned aloud and rolled over so that his wife lay beneath him.
"You should not have done that," he warned.
Margaret smiled in the secret way that only her husband knew as she teasingly traced her fingertips lightly over the bared skin of John's neck and chest in the way that he so enjoyed. "Is that so?" she asked, coyly.
It was an hour later when John regretfully rose from the master bed again. Margaret followed, pushing back the heavy curtains to welcome the pink warmth of dawn, which washed over the still dark bedroom.
"You needn't rise just because I do," John was quick to assure her, dropping a kiss atop her head and then crossing the room to dress. After washing his face, neck, and arms, he slipped an undershirt and then a white shirt over his head and selected his usual black suit and cravat.
Margaret turned from her station at the window to watch him, thinking how much things had changed since their first shy night together. She smiled in remembrance of her embarrassment then that Mr. Thornton would be so bold as to change into his nightshirt before her. Such a lifetime ago it seemed and how unhappy she had been, still consumed in sorrow over her parents' loss and fearful of a life of uncertainty with Mr. John Thornton. How she longed to be able to reassure her past self of the wonderful gift she had gained in her marriage to John. She would not undo one moment of the stumbling steps that had brought them to this moment.
Thankful for all that she now had, Margaret walked over to where John sat tying his shoes and ran a hand through his already tousled hair.
"You need not rise, love. You could remain abed for at least another hour," John again stated.
"I would rather be with you than in bed asleep," she assured him. "Besides, had I slept in I would have missed this sunrise. Is it not the most beautiful one you have ever seen?"
Looking at his wife, her brown curls haloed in the rosy light and her eyes shining with love, John could only nod.
Anna died at sunrise with a horrible shuddering sigh. Mary had lain beside her all night, begging God for just one more breath and then one more. The little chest rose and fell less and less often as the hours passed, but it always did. Until suddenly it did not. Mary could not believe at first that God would be so cruel as to deny her tiny prayer. She waited a whole minute before her brain would accept that the little girl, the still figure in her arms, was dead. Then, a terrible cry broke free of Mary's chest, rising through her lips which were parted in shock. It woke Nicholas who sat slumbering in a chair before the fire and Johnny whose fever had broken the previous day. Nicholas merely clenched his jaw and rubbed a weary hand over his face, but Johnny scrambled over the bed to his sister.
"Anna, Anna!" he screamed, shaking her. When she did not move or breathe, Johnny turned hard little fists on Mary. "Let her go! Let her go! What did you do?"
Enveloped in her own sorrow, Mary could not even comfort the boy. Instead, it was her father who picked Johnny up and crushed him in a tight hug. "She's gone, son," Higgins told him, "She's gone." He made the harsh words into a chant and rocked the broken-hearted boy until his hard fists turned to tears and wailing.
Johnny clung tight to his adoptive father, pressing his face insistently against the large man's chest so that rough cotton fabric blocked out the rest of the world. He felt at once ashamed for weeping like a baby and for being unable to act as man of the family and also so full of sorrow and fear of abandonment that he thought he might never be able to stop crying and would drown like his father.
In the reality that awaited him outside of Nicholas' arms, he was the only one of his siblings who had beaten the sickness. Anna lay dead and the others ill around her. It was his fault for getting the others sick. Maybe if the others all died – a loud sob accompanied this thought – Nicholas would be so mad that he would put Johnny out on the streets. Maybe he already was that angry and only hiding it at the moment. Johnny snuck a peek at Nicholas, but his face was unreadable.
He couldn't face the idea of being comforted by someone who hated him and shoved away, running back to the bed and again shaking his sister. "Anna! Anna!" When he again received no response, Johnny turned his anger on God. "Why?" he sobbed to the ceiling, "It's my fault, my fault! My sister didna' do nothing wrong!"
Nicholas had let his son go when he fought his way free, but upon hearing these words uttered he again gathered Johnny in his arms. "Hush, now. Hush. You mustna' blame yourself."
"I g-g-got them all sick," the little boy bellowed.
"An' who gotcha sick?" Nicholas asked.
"S-someone at the mill," Johnny answered, more calmly.
"Aye," Nicholas continued, "An' who gottem sick?"
"Dunno," Johnny admitted, his tears now stopped and only a soft hiccup interrupting his speech.
"Didja want to get th'others sick?"
Johnny snapped up as though accused. "Naw!"
Nicholas smiled at his conviction. "Didja get sick o'purpose?" he persisted.
"Naw."
"So then, y'aren't to blame for any of this," Nicholas concluded.
Relief washed over Johnny, visible in his expression.
"Now be a good lad and help Mary while I tell the master that I willna' be to work these next two days." Johnny nodded, swallowed hard, and then got down from Nicholas' lap.
Nicholas kissed Mary's head and pulled her tight into a hug before taking his coat and cap and heading for the mill. Outside, the sun shone brightly through the soot-stained clouds, but Nicholas did not notice; the whole walk to the mill he berated himself internally for letting Johnny work at the mill and carry the illness back to the others. Anna had died for his idiocy.
Since she had risen with her husband, Margaret sat in the front room enjoying the warmth of the morning rays and waiting for the rest of the house to rise or for Molly to complete her preparation of the first round of food baskets for the workers, whichever came first. She therefore spotted Nicholas Higgins arriving late to work. Fearful that one of the children might be worse, she ran from the front room into the hall and out onto the porch with her bonnet in her hands. "Nicholas!" she cried.
He nodded to show he had seen her and headed for the stairs rather than the mill. Margaret met him at the bottom, still tying her bonnet strings.
"What brings you here so late?" Margaret asked.
Nicholas removed his cap and twisted it in his hands. "I come to tell the master that I willna' be at work these two days. Our Anna has gone and left us for a better place."
"No!" Shocked, Margaret left off tying her bonnet and put a hand to Nicholas' arm. "Nicholas, I am so sorry. Please, let me talk to Mr. Thornton and give my love to Mary and the children."
"I thank you, Miss Margaret. Truth be told, I wasna' sure I could face the master today." Nicholas forced a smile, put on his cap, and headed for the undertaker's to order a tiny coffin.
Margaret pulled on her gloves with unsteady hands, floored by the thought that sweet Anna had died. Her mind carried her through every moment she had shared of the little girl's life as her feet carried her into the mill and up to John's office.
John looked up to find his wife standing in the doorway and could not believe it. Had last night meant nothing? Fear and anger battled for control over his emotions, but luckily Margaret gave a little hiccoughing breath that alerted him of the circumstances that had caused her to again enter the mill. "Margaret?" he asked, taking her hands. "What is it?"
"Little Anna Boucher has died," Margaret choked out. Her eyes flooded with tears at the reality of speaking the words aloud. John stepped forward and enveloped her in his arms, pushing off her bonnet so that she could be fully embraced. In this position, he could feel the warmth of her hair from the morning sun but also the slight tremble of her form from the news.
"I am so very sorry, Margaret," he offered.
Those poor children, Margaret thought, losing their mother and father and now a sister. Why if I ever lost Fred – this thought could not be completed. "I must take a basket to them," Margaret decided.
John balked. "You must not think me untouched by the loss of Higgins and his family; yet, this event only intensifies my belief in the need for you to distance yourself from the mill and the mill workers. My sister and her husband leave this day for the fresh air and good health of the countryside. I will call on them and ask that you and Mother be among their party."
"I cannot abandon the workers," Margaret protested, surprised. She pulled back from his embrace. "And what of you? Am I to depart from my husband's company with no means of assuring myself of his wellbeing? You will find me unmoved on this matter. I shall not go."
John nodded, accepting this. He had known she would protest, but he added his own qualification. "I will allow you to stay," he began. Margaret raised an eyebrow. "Aye, allow, Margaret. If," he continued, "you remain in the house at all times in order to avoid falling ill with this fever. This will give you means to continue feeding your beloved mill workers and to keep an eye on this errant husband whom you consider unable to care for himself. I, however, will sleep in my office. I will not be the cause of your illness."
The tears now did spill free of Margaret's dark eyes. "Have I no say in this?"
"None," John firmly replied. "Now kiss me goodbye, dear girl, and go back to the house."
Margaret longed to throw herself into her husband's arm and cling to him until this damned – she blushed a bit as the word entered her mind – fever released its grasp on Milton. Yet, echoing footsteps told of the approach of another, so she had to settle for a quick embrace, a lingering look, and a soft, "I will miss you." Even so reserved, this farewell near to broke John's resolve. Only the news of Anna Boucher's death kept him strong.
"I love you, Margaret," John offered.
"And I you," Margaret returned, with a sad smile. "I pray this time to pass quickly." Then she turned and made her way down the stairs, across the yard, and up onto the porch of the house. She paused there, took a deep breath as though to store up fresh air for her impending imprisonment, and then disappeared into the house. John knew for he watched her every step, drinking it in. When she had gone, John sighed and turned to face Williams, who stood in the doorway waiting.
I pray the same, dearest Margaret, he thought.
Margaret Thornton traced her finger over the sooty window pane, unable to clear her view for the soot was all on the exterior of the pane. Instead, she watched through the dirt-tinted windows as the factory workers filed out of the mill, picking up her baskets as they went. How she longed to personally hand out those parcels of food as she had planned only three weeks before, giving food and receiving in return information on how their parents and children, siblings and spouses fared. She no longer knew who lived and who died but waited alone in the large empty house for this accursed fever to release its hold over Milton. Even Mrs. Hannah Thornton had gone when Fanny required a traveling companion. Now only Margaret, Molly the cook, and Edward, the butler, remained. Agnes, of course, had gone with Mrs. Thornton, and Julia and Samantha left when members of their families fell ill. With the number of deaths having just this last week reached over one hundred, John urged Margaret daily to leave. Margaret, in return, begged her husband to leave the mill in Mr. Williams' capable hands and seek refuge with her in their home. Neither would bend.
There – John exited the mill, immediately glancing up and locking eyes with Margaret where she waited. Even at this distance, she saw his exhaustion in the curve of his shoulders and pressed her fingers against the glass to touch his image. She had grown up much in these last three weeks, learning fully how to love another more than herself. Every moment, every breath was accompanied by a prayer to spare her city – for it truly was hers now – but especially to spare her John. In spite of, or perhaps because of, this constant worry, her days had settled into a rhythm that she now followed unthinkingly.
Turning reluctantly away from the view of her husband, Margaret walked back to the kitchen and fetched the plate that Molly had prepared, taking it back to the front of the house and setting it out on the steps. She paused, securing a loose strand of hair and basking in the late evening sunlight, delighting in the slightest cool breeze after the stagnant air of the house. "Go back inside, Margaret," John demanded, his frown visible even from halfway across the yard.
"I miss you, John," she breathed. He smiled in acknowledgement of her statement, but still waved her in. She complied, returning to the dreary darkness of the hall and pushing the door closed on the world, but stood with her ear to the heavy oak door and listened to the footsteps of her husband, her closest contact in twenty-eight miserable days. "John," she called when it sounded as if he had reached the top of the steps.
"Margaret, my love," he responded. "You make my heart leap with fear when you risk your health that way."
"I am sorry," she began, "however, you risk yourself every day and I have no way of knowing until this late hour that you are well." A silence.
"I am also sorry," John finally stated. "Call for Edward to bring a chair and we can converse as I eat." It was a gift, an apology; every day before John had left the porch immediately upon collecting his meal so as to avoid infecting his wife.
Margaret, unable to consider stepping out of earshot of her husband's voice for a second of this precious time, seated herself on the carpeted floor, eager for even this slight connection to those she loved. "How are the mill families?" she asked.
"Some better than others," John admitted. "Little Cora is not thought to be able to pull through and Keenan died yesterday." He pressed his hand up against the door, trying to offer her his strength. He had started with the worst news.
Margaret gasped, unable to imagine the two little children who had worked their way into her heart ill, much less dying and dead. Cora's death would mean half the Boucher children had been lost. She could not yet summon true sorrow; her tears would be shed later when the news sunk in, most likely when she lay alone in their empty bed. Many tears had been shed there of late. "Go on," she urged him, unable to deny the comfort of his voice even if the words it sounded cut like a knife.
"Higgins is still here every day," John assured his wife, pained that he could not truly comfort her. "The families bless you for your baskets. They can concentrate on caring for their loved ones now that they do not need to worry about feeding those who live."
"And you?" Margaret interjected. "Are you still well?"
"Yes," he stated. "I am well."
The crack in the door darkened as Margaret and John talked. "My love," she said reproachfully as soon as she noticed, "The sun is long set and you sit in the cold, damp air. Go to your office and warm yourself."
"Good night, Margaret," he replied, teasing her to ease their parting. "Someday soon this illness will end and I will expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Do not get too used to having your run of the house."
"Never," she declared. "I am so lonely in this enormous, empty house that I would gladly welcome half of Milton to share in its running." Margaret brushed her fingertips against the door, imagining her husband doing the same. He was.
She sat for a few minutes alone in the living room, but the lamps that drove back the darkness could not touch her aching heart so she headed up the stairs to the slight comfort of sleep.
John sat up long into the night, trying in vain to imagine the soft touch of his wife's fingertips across his skin, the sweet scent of her hair, and the shy smile and soft blush that she wore when they were alone. This distance was maddening. However, he had only to consider the possibility of her flushed with fever lying on her sickbed or drained of color and lying in a casket to cause a pounding rush of fear and determination to flow through him.
The next morning, Margaret busied herself as she did every day with the preparation of the baskets. The mill workers returned the empty containers as they arrived at work, some carrying two or three so as to bring food to those too ill to work. Molly prepared the food after supper the night before, Margaret packed the baskets in the morning, and Edward carried them through the house and placed them on the steps where John would pick them up and place them in the mill yard. Margaret watched the synchronized routine between Edward and John begin, each timing their trips so as to remain as far from one another as possible. Margaret leaned against the front window, straining to catch a glimpse of her husband, her closest view of him. It was aggravating, only seeing the man she loved in bits and pieces. A shoulder, a glimpse of a profile, a strong arm. Suddenly he stepped fully into her view, wiping sweat away despite the cool of the morning. She thought nothing of it, knowing the weight of the baskets and the exertion of the climb up and down the steps, but his face was flushed more red than she would expect and his eyes had an almost glassy look. "God damn it, John," she burst, flying into the foyer and flinging open the door between them. He did not even have time to order her back before she had cornered him and placed a cool hand on his warm brow.
"What are you doing?" he cried.
"You are sick!" she accused.
"It is nothing," he replied, "Now get inside."
"No." She stamped her foot in a very unladylike way. "You know as well as I do that you have the fever. Get inside and to bed this instant."
"Margaret, I will be fine," he argued.
Her eyes blazed in fury at his pig-headedness. "Swear to me that unlike half of Milton you will survive this fever."
He could not. She clung to him, begging, "Will you leave me to worry myself sick every minute that I do not see you? Do you think I could survive that better than this fever?" Her brown eyes shone with unshed tears and her arms stretched wide as they had once before on this porch to protect him.
John swallowed down his fears and enveloped her in his arms, knowing that if their roles had been reversed – thank God they had not – he would not have kept away. "Calm yourself, my love. I will come."